Catharsis

I seek words like whores to purge this soul of unnecessary pity and fear, that the void dug by my emotions may be eaten away by the pleasure that they might give. So I seek the rhythm and song of many in hopes that my soul reaches orgy and purity as these unnecessary emotions swell up like a tumor bound to my heart, leaking foul pus of impurity that begs to be drained, cleansed and rid of. Cut it out, and I might die.

The abject can only be repeated, never purged. It may come the next time in the form of a friend that whispers false hopes beside your ears, holding your hand, leading you down alleys of delicate lilac-coloured veins: do not be afraid, all your pity will be but a faint glimmer from yesterday's eclipsed Moon.

Drift off into the wind on a rotting plank with the appearance of fine furniture dipped in shellac, the surface of the still lake will carry you nowhere while you wake up the next day and find yourself in a place not quite similar, yet not quite different. The face of the Sun is encircled with numbers 1-12, and the number 3 seems to be bursting, the vultures overhead make a full circle thrice, before descending upon you in a rain of feathers soft. You never kept your eyes open for me-- blame the deformed clouds, gliding over your body blanketed by darkness.

At the edge of the well stands an animal with twisted horns that curl the way the hair of your lover curls, as if a demon, stones are hurled at its unfaltering body. Bleeding, it sings:

Auf den Ästen in den Gräben

ist es nun still und ohne Leben

Und das Atmen fällt mir ach so schwer

Weh mir, oh weh

Und die Vögel singen nicht mehr